


A Completely Irrational Sense of Optimism

by lets_keep_walking



Series: Four-Inch Little Shit-Biscuits [4]
Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Childbirth, Drabbles, F/M, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pregnancy, artists and authors screaming in fear of the unknown, basically the color discourse, but is was still hilarious, don't worry it wasn't a war, old tumblr stuff, readers were crying, the color discourse in this fandom was Iconic™, there was panic in the streets, was fighting about what color branch is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lets_keep_walking/pseuds/lets_keep_walking
Summary: Drabbles over various events based on the movie, and after.





	1. Cups

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [=http://ask-artsy-oncie.tumblr.com/>@ask-artsy-oncie]() on tumblr for inspiration, fanart, a heaping helping of support, and everything else. Love ya, Artsy. ANYWAY. Just mindless drabbles. Go have fun.

Poppy had a way of communicating something special through her music. Whether it was about a pod opening up in the middle of the fall, or when a trolling took their first step, she unknowingly bestowed the future onto her subjects.

It took him a while to figure out that she had done the same to herself.

“I got my ticket for the long way ‘round,” she had sang, only years ago. “Two bottles’a whiskey for the way…and I sure would like some sweet company, and I’m leavin’ tomorrow, wha’d’ya say?”

He saw her everywhere, and it was irrefutable to ignore that, unbeknownst to her, the annoyingly catchy tune accompanied with the clink of pint cups had predicted the pink princess’s future.

And he missed it.

She was right. He did miss her singing, the way her smile would spark something in her eyes. He missed her by her walk, and he missed her by the way she would have no filter (or sense of subtlety, for that matter) in what she said. The princess commanded attention, demanded hugs in compensation, with no ifs, ands or buts about it. And sometimes, that was what he loved about her.

Other things he loved were visiting her new home.

He has to admit, when he gets there, that it’s an odd place to live, what with the culmination of plants and wildlife constantly surrounding her, but he doesn’t question it. She did foresee it, after all, and the best things going on for Poppy were her constants. He figured, if he thought like her, it wouldn’t be so bad.

She’s sitting in her usual spot when he finds her, lightly brushing the dust off a tall stone and letting the light of the moon encompass her. She already looks as transparent as a tissue, and the moonlight gives the allusion that she could be too.

“Hey!” she chirps when she sees him, excited for his visit. “It’s been so long!”

“It’s only been a month, Poppy.” But he sits down (with trouble, he realizes. It _has_ been long.) and reaches for the thick stone she procures and offers him with her trademark mega-watt smile. Spring is coming to a close, so the ground isn’t as crumbly as it was since the last time he visited her. Maybe that was her affect she had with the physical aspect of things, but he doesn’t care, and soon forgets about his worries. He has her with him, so he needs to absorb as much of her as he possibly can before it’s time to leave.

He sets his cane next to him and rakes his hands through his grey-streaked hair, sighing at her overeager position. She’s already doing her routine with her portion of rock, actively singing, indicating for him to join, and who is he to deny her that? She’s the princess.

At least, he still thinks she is.

The song she sings is actually an accident, and he still wishes he could’ve been there to get her to stop her incessant singing before it was too late.

She was in their home, baking a couple of rolls when she came up with a little clapping and tapping sequence with a cup she baked with. Rotating and slamming the cup down on the kitchen counter, she had come up with her own little song, not translated or portrayed with paper and pen, but with her thoughts and her flesh. It was an accident, but because of it being her singing it, it had already been set in stone.

It was funny how she had never known how much power she had. She just sang her heart out, and it resulted in a few extra pods blooming during the summer, or snow in the middle of fall. The worst part was when she had gotten the whole village in on the cup-clapping nuisance. He hadn’t been able go anywhere without someone singing about it for weeks!

“So.” She had already finished her turn of the song. “How’ve things been?”

“Hectic,” he groans, fiddling with his rock. “Puzzle just decreed that those berries you were eating during the trip to Bergen town were edible, and Rosie’s trying to crossbreed flowers.”

She gives him one of her tinkling laughs. “Really?” she asks. “Don’t worry,” she dismisses when she sees his exasperated face. “He’ll see just how much that’ll backfire. What type of flowers?”

“I have no idea if it’s even a plant.”

She snickers, and he feels like himself only a few decades ago.

“How long will it take for him to notice?”

“With his attitude? Not long.”

“How’s it hanging here?”

“It’s so boring,” the pink princess drawls. “The only animals I ever see are spiders, and then in the spring—” She wrinkles her nose.

“Which one were they?”

“Bunnies,” she gags. “Woo boy, lemme tell ya, they were all _over_ each other!”

“Yeah, on second thought, don’t tell me. I’d like to sleep tonight.”

She laughs pleasantly once more, and sidles up to him, nuzzling his neck. She’s cold, of course, he’d expect her to be in this state, but he cuddles her to his side, and she coos softly.

“I love you,” she whispers softly, and it’s hard to hold in the tears that well up in his eyes. Suddenly his arms begin to shake, his chest contracts, and he’s sobbing into her shoulder. She expects it, of course; she always does. Nothing passes through her now refined eyes.

“I miss you,” he cries into her. “I miss you _so much_. You have no idea.”

“I know,” she says quietly, stroking his back. “I miss you too.”

“Do y’think your future vision would’ve been helpful if you hadn’t sung that song?”

“All the time. Always.” She kisses the top of his head, and he can barely register the touch. “I could’ve done so much, but, I guess singing didn’t solve everything, huh?” She grins down at him. “Who knew you’d turn into a fortune teller too?”

He laughs, deep and throaty. “What can I say? You’ve changed me.”

“And who’da thought?”

“You.”

“Well, yeah, but someone other than me. Now c’mere.”

She gives him the rock he had no idea he dropped. It isn’t really conventional to bring perfectly good cups to the forest, so they practice with rocks. It was their ritual before parting, and a part of him wished that the consequences of future vision would come to him too so that he wouldn’t have to waste time with waiting for the visits.

“I got my ticket for the long way ‘round,” she sings, clapping with her stone.

“The one with the prettiest of views,” he croons, reaching for his own.

“It’s got mountains, it’s got rivers—”

“—it’s got sights that give you shivers.”

“But it sure would be prettier with you.”

Their voices are as the same as they were when they were younger, without a care in the world about worries or the occasional visit from a critter (in which, Branch would panic and Poppy would laugh) but even as they sing, his heart can’t help but pitter-patter out of hurt at the familiarity of her voice. It’s like he can’t even remember when she last sang.

When she finishes the last note, she lets it echo around the forest in the way that she knows he likes, and he can’t help but drop his rock and hug her once more. He knows that the time to leave is approaching rapidly, but he doesn’t want to yet. He holds her close and listens to the hollow ambience in her chest.

But as much as he doesn’t want to leave, she detangles herself from him with a gentle push and a kiss goodbye.

“We’ll see each other again soon,” she promises, and then disappears. He finds himself alone and hugging himself. The princess has left his embrace.

Reaching for his cane, he pulls himself up with a struggle. His bones seem weaker than last time, and his skin felt like leather. As he makes his way back to the valley, he smiles when he hears the wind blowing accompanied with a rhythmic thump.

“ _When I’m gone_ ,” he can almost hear, along with her clapping, “ _when I’m gone, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone. You’re gonna miss me by my hair, and you’ll miss me everywhere, oh, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone_.”


	2. In the Name of Science

Ever since he had received his colors, a majority of the troll population decided that waiting for him to get used to society took too long, so when the next hug time chime rang, he was immediately swamped with dozens of them.

They’d be everywhere, occasionally leaving presents at his doorstep, getting too emotional when expressing their gratitude from saving them from the bergens, to even getting too touchy-feely during designated hug times. Most of the time, while he was talking to them, they would begin walking and talking, and he’d always find himself amongst a group of them no matter where he went.

Sure it was troll custom, but that didn’t undermine the fact that they were still violating his personal space.

He could tell she didn’t like it either.

* * *

It was grating, in a way. He’d be innocently strolling while debating with another Troll on the probability of the tree dying when– _chime_!–the hug time bells rang.

Almost every troll within ten feet had the same idea, and before you could scream ‘strawberry sourdough’–

Her arms would be around him.

She had no idea what would get into her. All she knew was that she didn’t exactly take kindly to someone—pretty much everyone— hugging him that earnestly.

So she put herself to the task of constantly being at arm’s length with him, both literally and figuratively. Whenever hug time rang, she’d shout, loud and clear and hug him tightly, in which he’d bemusedly hug back, and everyone else would just…shuffle away reluctantly, because his arms were around her and hers vice versa. That type of hug didn’t exactly need to be invaded.

It would make her feel awfully uneasy, because straight after she’d feel terrible about denying so many trolls the chance at hugs but at the same time she’d feel so exuberant about having someone she cared about so close, even if it was for a few seconds of each hour.

“And I don’t like it,” Poppy mumbled into her tea, “I can’t explain it, but I just don’t really like the idea of anyone else hugging him, especially when he gets so uncomfortable about it.”

The last thing she expected her confidant to do was laugh.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Bridget managed to choke out amongst her boisterous laughter.

“Get what?”

“That you’re jealous, Poppy!”

 _That_ struck a chord. Poppy sat in confused silence, her chin on her fist, and her eyebrows scrunched together in deliberate thought.

“Listen,” Bridget said with a little smile, “Do you care about him?”

Poppy looked up.

“Yes.”

“Do you like anyone else hugging him?”

“Well…not really.”

“So there you have it,” Bridget declared, “You’re definitely jealous. Strawberry jealous.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Bridget bit her lip. “Not really, well, sometimes,” She thrust her arms out in worried fashion, “But only if you let it take over. Just be careful with it.”

Poppy nodded. That should be easy enough.

Ever since he had received his colors, a majority of the troll population decided that waiting for him to get used to society took too long, so when the next hug time chime rang, he was immediately swamped with dozens of them.

They’d be everywhere, occasionally leaving presents at his doorstep, getting too emotional when expressing their gratitude from saving them from the bergens, to even getting too touchy-feely during designated hug times. Most of the time, while he was talking to them, they would begin walking and talking, and he’d always find himself amongst a group of them no matter where he went.

Sure it was troll custom, but that didn’t undermine the fact that they were still violating his personal space.

He could tell she didn’t like it either.

* * *

It was grating, in a way. He’d be innocently strolling while debating with another Troll on the probability of the tree dying when–chime!–the hug time bells rang.

Almost every troll within ten feet had the same idea, and before you could scream ‘strawberry sourdough’–

Her arms would be around him.

She had no idea what would get into her. All she knew was that she didn’t exactly take kindly to someone—pretty much everyone— hugging him that earnestly.

So she put herself to the task of constantly being at arm’s length with him, both literally and figuratively. Whenever hug time rang, she’d shout, loud and clear and hug him tightly, in which he’d bemusedly hug back, and everyone else would just…shuffle away reluctantly, because his arms were around her and hers vice versa. That type of hug didn’t exactly need to be invaded.

It would make her feel awfully uneasy, because straight after she’d feel terrible about denying so many trolls the chance at hugs but at the same time she’d feel so exuberant about having someone she cared about so close, even if it was for a few seconds of each hour.

“And I don’t like it,” Poppy mumbled into her tea, “I can’t explain it, but I just don’t really like the idea of anyone else hugging him, especially when he gets so uncomfortable about it.”

The last thing she expected her confidant to do was laugh.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Bridget managed to choke out amongst her boisterous laughter.

“Get what?”

“That you’re jealous, Poppy!”

 _That_ struck a chord. Poppy sat in confused silence, her chin on her fist, and her eyebrows scrunched together in deliberate thought.

“Listen,” Bridget said with a little smile, “Do you care about him?”

Poppy looked up.

“Yes.”

“Do you like anyone else hugging him?”

“Well…not really.”

“So there you have it,” Bridget declared, “You’re definitely jealous. Strawberry jealous.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Bridget bit her lip. “Not really, well, sometimes,” She thrust her arms out in worried fashion, “But only if you let it take over. Just be careful with it.”

Poppy nodded. That should be easy enough.

* * *

“I know what you’re doing.”

Poppy froze solid. No way. There was absolutely no way he could have found her out. She was being so careful! Sure it might have been a bit suspicious that she was always around when every hour came to a close, and the fact that she that she was a little too eager in holding his hand and angling herself so that she’d be in the way of handsy trolls might have been a solid giveaway, but Branch didn’t seem to notice anything.

“And what’s that?”

“You’re trying to protect me,” A warm smile crossed his face, “from the other trolls?”

Relief and disappointed flooded her system. He hadn’t noticed.

_He hadn’t noticed._

What was she hiding from him again? Jealousy was weird. What’s the point of feeling a little left out if the person you’re trying to get with doesn’t know?

“You’re clueless,” Poppy whispered softly, “You seriously don’t know?”

He quirked a brow.

“About what?”

“About how attractive you are!”

* * *

“No, no, no! Here, look,” Poppy explained for the umpteenth time, “They’re flirting with you if they ask you if you’re doing anything later.”

“And that means…?”

“That they like you! That they want to see you later!”

“So what if someone literally says that? Does that mean they want to see me later?”

“Yes! No! I have no idea!” Poppy threw her hands up in exasperation before slumping against the roots of the tree. Branch sat down next to her, borrowing her look from before.

“How about you just show me instead?”

She grinned. “Gladly.”

* * *

“I’m sorry; I didn’t appear to catch your name,” said Poppy, a sly grin on her face.

He mirrored her in kind.

“I didn’t throw it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughgh this is al really OLD.
> 
> Read this and then go read A Royal Shame and see how far I've come and tELL ME PROGRESS DOESN'T EXIST


	3. Keep Your Composure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this one the most.

Poppy always knew that nothing in life would ever be pain free, figuratively and literally, mentally and physically. That included friends, family; coping with the loss of someone you thought was a trustworthy, being bound to the person you never thought you’d expected to care about so much, physical intimacy, and dealing with the fact that you’d always have someone with you for a chunk of one year.

Granted, that train of thought was constructed by the one person she’d never thought she’d turn to, and she never knew that caring about someone so much would eventually lead to a bad case of puffy eyes and an achy heart.

He had been there for her privately when she messily relapsed from the betrayal of another, and bit by bit, with each passing day, she had come to learn so much about how much influence one person had on so many people, and she wouldn’t have known had he changed her mind.

You grin and you bear it. You smother it down, stamp it back, and sweep it under the mental equivalent of a rug. You head back to the safety of the shore because _no way_ were you going to drown in sea of conflicting emotions when everyone else around you needed you to be strong. When you were alone and no longer needed to uphold the structure as a supporting leader, then you could go ahead and swan dive into that nightmare all you wanted to.

So when she heard more than felt the shift in her abdomen and the warm trickle of fluid inching down her leg straight after, she quietly whispered into his ear.

And to her staggering surprise, his reaction was what she was expecting.

After the anticipated exclamation of surprise and short bout of panic, he pulled her close and secured her with both hands because he was not going to give her a spontaneous case of high-risk pregnancy by carrying her, and with his hair, was able to swing from the trees limbs and up onto the top of the tree.

Then came the first contraction.

* * *

Her face was contorted into a grimace, her hair was tied so it wouldn’t react to her contractions, and her pink skin was muted and dim. The first few hours of labor were blindingly red and ragged her voice raw. Her mind had never felt so attentive, and suddenly every nerve in her body could detect everything, from the limbs of her cargo moving, to the voice at her side that had assured her that she’d be alright, nothing short of a miracle turned down the volume of how loud and clear and coherent everything was.

Her nerves’ sudden increase of sensory only accented the pain when her body acted for her. She could even watch the descent of her stomach when her inner muscles flexed.

Branch had somehow found a way to negotiate with the midwives to let him in because _gods damn it_ if the only thing that’s separating him from her is a flimsy door. The only reason he hadn’t kicked it down yet was for Poppy’s safety. Believe him; he’d kick down all the doors in the Troll Tree if it meant he could watch over her.

He had counted up the seconds to every few contractions. There’d be one every fifteen to twenty seconds—which would last for only minute, give or take—, and if there weren’t, listen to her breathing. Both his hand and ears would thank him later.

Speaking of which—

Another hiss made it past her clenched teeth, and pressure was applied to his hand. He squeezed back, and whispered little nothings into her ear.

A tiny tilt of a smile on her face was the only sign that she heard him, and it was only during the first few hours of night did she start crowning.

* * *

It took thirty-two hours, forty-three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, eight ripped pillows and several reassuring kisses, but Joy was a ray of sunshine the second her placenta was detached from her mother. Her hair was a dark shade of wisteria, and her skin was a dimmed variant of pink.

Branch, after making sure the baby was secure with the rest of the midwives, spent the night at Poppy’s side, holding her hand, kissing her neck, whispering into her ear to make her laugh, and while she slept, he would be there all night, and there when she woke up in the morning.


	4. Pins 'n Needles

Fashion was one of the Twins’ major strong points, from analyzing someone’s outfit to applying unnecessary layers of makeup, the two adored nothing more than glitter and a bolt of fabric, and promised each other that their love for it wouldn’t get out of hand. But with their sibling status, that was a promise that was hard to keep.

Since Branch was unofficially an official member of the snack pack, it was tradition that the twins give him a brand new outfit, so Branch scraped together enough courage to let them go over him with measuring tape and note pads.

It was ironic; Poppy’s friends could actually concentrate and focus on a subject if they wanted to. They brought him inside their pod, which had one wall littered with papers depicting the differences of the female and male body, another stocked with a variety of bolts of fabric and a gargantuan sewing machine in the corner.

Their hair was stretched to give them freer roam, but that didn’t decrease their work ethic. They chattered, but were efficient and quick while they worked. Satin could throw a pin from one side of the room and Chenille could catch it from the other.

“Definitely not using satin,” piped Chenille as she went over a note pad.

“Mmm, and nosilk,” agreed Satin with a little wrinkle of her nose.

“It needs to be flexible so he can run in it, but also not a hassle when it’s time to wash,” Chenille mused.

“With no rips or tears,” added Satin.

“And no glitter,” chimed Branch.

“We know,” replied the twins.

“Cotton?” Chenille suggested.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Satin shook her head. “It’ll chafe against your skin, and if it gets wet, it _stays_ wet.”

Chenille agreed with a hum, and wrote that down.

Their knowledge of fabrics went far beyond what Branch could comprehend. They talked endlessly about sewing patterns and which types of cotton would keep you warm during the winter, but seemed to hold a dislike for corduroy. They debated on the pros and cons on wearing chiffon or organza dresses and the benefits of wearing flannel to bed instead of fleece.

Chenille looked up from her notes with a bright expression and a wide grin.

“That’s it!”

“What, fleece?”

“No, Polyesteror nylon cotton!” Chenille cried triumphantly, “We could use those!”

Satin opened her mouth to object, thought, for a second, and then matched her sister’s grin.

“Theydon’t chafe,” Satin began.

“They’re made for running and aren’t a pain to wash!” Chenille finished.

They high fived, and Chenille hurriedly scribbled it down.

“Besides,” Satin started as she reached for the polyester cotton, “regular cotton is Poppy’s thing, right?”

Chenille opened a cupboard, procured another note pad, read its contents and nodded.

“Wait,” Branch began, “You guys write down all the fabrics you’ve ever used?”

“That’d take forever!” Chenille laughed as she returned the note pad to its proper place. “No, we just write down the ones people seem to like. Y'know, for future reference. For example,” her finger found her lips, “Biggie wears denim jeans with a cotton vest, and Cooper’s hat is made of wool.”

“Really?” Satin asked as she placed the polyester cotton down, “I always thought it was fleece.”

“That’s just how it looks, you gotta touch it to know what it is, I thought it was fleece too, but it’s wool,” confirmed Chenille.

“Hey-o! How’s the sewin’ going?” Poppy asked as she blindly entered the pod with her left hand.

“Poppy, why’re you covering your eyes?”

“It’s just a thing we do,” answered Satin.

“Yeah,” Chenille continued, “others can’t see till we’re done.”

“Don’t you guys think that’s a little dangerous? She could get hurt.”

“Don’t worry, Branch! It’s fine.”

“You’re not even facing my direction.”

Poppy whirled around. “Seriously, stop worrying! We do stuff like this all the time.”

It was true. Poppy had been there for when her friends had gotten their fittings had developed a mental map of the room. From her standpoint, Branch was a little ways to the left, Chenille to her close right, and Satin in the far back, and the quiet snips told her that she was cutting up fabric.

“Hey sis,” called Satin. She was laden with two different shades of teal.

“Which one do you think looks better?”

Chenille had an odd way of looking at things. She picked up a corner of fabric and examined them closely, then peered at Branch with squinted eyes. When that didn’t work, she brought one to his left and the other his right, and then she stared.

Her brows her furrowed in thought, and she tilted her head in contemplation.Then she raised one up.

“This one,” she proclaimed and turned to her sister.

“It goes perfectly with that blue!” Satin exclaimed.

“You mean green?” Chenille asked, perplexed.

Satin shook her head. “No, I mean blue.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s green.”

“Nuh-uh! He’s blue. Look at him.”

“I _am_ looking at him, and I’m telling you, he’s green!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“No he _isn’t!_ ”

"Yes he _is!_ ”

“Oh jeez,” muttered Poppy. She groped for Branch, found him, and then promptly led him out of the pod.

“Don’t worry,” Poppy said after his protest, “They have enough measurements already. They’ll be fine.”

“‘Sides,” she continued, “they get into fights like this all the time. It’s better if we leave. Sometimes even the whole village picks sides!”

She laughed at his worried expression. "Don’t worry,” she repeated, “It’s not gonna be like that this time!”

Her grin faded. “I think.”

Poppy hoped for Branch’s sake that she was right.

* * *

It began with two, which escalated into ten, quadrupled into forty, and was exponentially spread throughout the entire troll population.

People stared at Branch intently whenever he was in public, and was constantly dealing with several trolls trying to 'test his skin’.

They began to take constant pictures of him, some with flash, others without flash, and tested them in different lighting environments. When that failed, they insisted that he stand in front of different colored drops to try and determine his 'precise shade of cerulean’. He had hoped that the drops would end the color-fueled feud, but it only fed the fire.

Conflicts kept breaking out because people couldn’t decide on what color he was, and some people gave up and declared that he was polychromatic and had two sets of colors, one being green and blue, while the other was blue and purple.

It was annoying. And unnerving. _You_ try having people take endless photos of you while asking what soap you bathe with or what lotion you regularly wear, because apparently anything your skin touches immediately changes the color in some shape or form.

Did you know that Branch’s color scheme was a hexadecimal code that led to what shampoo he used?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Poppy said.

“Exactly,” Branch mumbled, crashing onto her sofa.

“I almost wish I had never gotten these stupid colors!”

Poppy looked up.

“I mean, they’re nice and all, but all of this excessive drama is so _grating_!”

“Yeah,” Poppy agreed, looking back down at her clasped hands.

Then she perked up, an idea forming in her head.

“Branch,” she began as she got up, “I’m queen now, right?”

“If the crown fits.”

“That means,” she gave him an excited smile, “I can change the law, right?”

“Well–”

Branch stopped.

“Where are you going with this?”

Her smile grew a little wider.

* * *

“And so, we hold these truths as evidence that no color should ever be decided by anyone other than yourself, as your real colors reside in your heart.”

“Also, enough with the flash photography.”

* * *

“Which one do you think matches?” Asked Satin, laden with the two bolts of fabric from before.

They had the fabric tested for its efficiency, and now only needed to pick a color. Poppy had her eyes closed. Branch crossed his fingers.

“Why not both?” suggested Chenille. “They complement him perfectly!”

Satin nodded and grinned at her sister.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

**Author's Note:**

> In which Poppy predicts shit through music. Sounds like something she'd do.


End file.
